


So What Was Your Last Girlfriend Like?

by sunken_standard



Series: So What Was Your Last Girlfriend Like? [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Infidelity, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 09:05:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10682112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: "So what was your last girlfriend like?" Janine asked, running her fingertip up and down his index finger.  They were lying on her bed; one of his arms was around her and the other rested on his bare stomach.





	So What Was Your Last Girlfriend Like?

**Author's Note:**

> So, in my eternal quest to figure out just how much and what exactly had gone on between them before TFP, sometimes ideas fall out. This is yet another way it could have gone, how it could have started. Sorry in advance for anyone with Janine feels. One day, she's going to get hers, she really is. I have so many plans for her. (That sounds entirely more sinister than I intended.) 
> 
> A missing scene, probably about two weeks after the Watson wedding. 
> 
> Beta'd and titled by madder_badder (thank you :D) and not Brit-picked.

*

 

 

"So what was your last girlfriend like?" Janine asked, running her fingertip up and down his index finger. They were lying on her bed; one of his arms was around her and the other rested on his bare stomach. He'd been smart to go with the low-dose MDMA/ amphetamine cocktail; just enough to lower his inhibitions and open himself up a bit to draw her in, just enough to make an erection impossible.

 

"I... _can't_ when I'm high," he'd said, putting on the appropriate expression of shame and self-hatred; it was a very deep well from which to draw. She'd moved her hand away, but he hadn't stopped kissing her; if she was satisfied, she'd see him as more the generous sort than he probably was. It had been hard to actually enjoy making a woman come for the first time in his life when the guilt was snapping at his heels, but at least she'd got something out of it.

 

"She wasn't my girlfriend, but we were... involved..." The lie tumbled from his lips without conscious thought, only an inkling of the shape of it in the back of his brain.

 

"Ah," she said knowingly. "How long ago was that?"

 

"Almost a year ago, now," he said, vague. Fifth of November sprang immediately to mind; nine months, three weeks. He wanted very much to avoid the direction his narrative was going, but it was too late. And too easy; he was just starting his descent into the comedown and his brain would only get more muddled the further he got into it.

 

"So while you were dead?"

 

"Mm," he nodded. "And before."

 

"What happened?"

 

"Long distance hadn't been working as well as I thought." He swirled circles on the round of her shoulder with his fingertip.

 

Janine looked at him, measuring; there was a gentleness to her gaze that was too familiar, but not right at all. It lacked tenderness, lacked unspoken understanding; it lacked the kind of sadness that came from being helpless in the face of mortality and the spark of raging against the dying of the light. He swallowed down a wave of _something_ , some emotion he didn't have a name for because to give it a name would give it power, make it real.

 

"She broke your heart," Janine said softly.

 

"Yes, well," he said, looking away because he found he couldn't maintain eye contact any longer. "It's only fair, I suppose, as I spent rather a lot of time breaking hers."

 

"Because of the drugs?"

 

"Because I'm an arsehole." It was an absolute truth.

 

She tilted her head and gave him a look that was one part reproach and one part encouragement. "Sherl, you sell yourself short," she said. "I can tell and I only just met ya."

 

He mustered up a kind of _thank you, you're sweet_ , bashful, soft-eyed smile, hoping it would do the trick and maybe change the course of the conversation. Honestly, though, now that he'd started to put all those deliberately-ignored feelings into words, he didn't want to stop. "I only wish I had drugs as an excuse. I wasn't using, then. Still smoked, sometimes. She never said anything about it."

 

"You, ah, you haven't talked about this before, have ya?" she asked. Insightful, though hardly an amazing leap.

 

"No. I don't usually talk about these things with anyone." _Oh!_ , he thought, _perfect opportunity_. _Don't waste it._ "I feel like I can talk to you, though. You're... different. You won't judge me for it."

 

"D'ya _wanna_ talk about it?" she offered, moving her hand from his and using one finger to brush a curl from his forehead.

 

He did and he _really didn't_. But if it would foster a sense of emotional intimacy faster, then it was probably the best course.

 

"Isn't that one of those rules? You're not supposed to talk about past relationships when starting a new one?" He was giving himself one last out and inching things forward at the same time; oh, he was _good_.

 

"Relationship?" she asked, her voice a kind of surprised, pleased laugh.

 

"We've been out a few times now, I just thought maybe you'd like to be my girlfriend," he said, channelling insecurity, a hint of nerves, vulnerability in the face of rejection.

 

"Yeah," she smiled. "I think I'd like that, Sherlock Holmes." She leaned in and kissed him, lingering and a bit seductive, but she pulled back on it before it led anywhere.

 

"I still wanna hear about it if you wanna tell me," she said.

 

A red warning light started blinking on one of those Cold War-era consoles in his brain. Dangerous, proceed with caution.

 

"Well, ah, where to begin? It was on-again-off-again for a few years, more off than on for the first two. We were really only finding our feet when I had to fake my suicide." It wasn't that much of a lie, even if his description had been completely one-sided. "She knew I was really alive, I couldn't hide it from her even if I'd wanted to."

 

 _Careful_ , he told himself. He was too close to getting too specific. She might or might not ask Mary about it and Mary might or might not speculate correctly. If Janine had read John's blog, much of what he'd said could be assumed to refer to The Woman. Whether that would work for or against him was yet to be seen.

 

"Most of it was over the phone while I was gone. Some texts, sometimes Skype." All of that was true, if overstated. She'd had a phone with a secure line courtesy of Mycroft; he made use of her expertise sparingly. Sometimes he made up excuses to keep her on the line longer. Sometimes they talked a bit. Only a handful of times in two years, but it had been enough to keep him going. To keep him human.

 

Janine was listening intently, filling in her own gaps. Good.

 

"I was hardly in the position to offer a commitment at the time and it was what she needed. I can't begrudge her that, really. I knew—well, I thought, at least, then—that she was waiting for me and it seemed cruel to offer promises I might not have been able to follow through on."

 

"Were you gonna marry'er?" Janine asked, pulling back a bit as her eyes went wide.

 

"No! Well, probably not. I didn't think she was the type to ever want that." And oh, how very wrong he'd been.

 

His miscalculation so early on had led to his biggest missed opportunity. Serial monogamist, professional and attractive and very much a feminist; he never thought she would want the shackle of ownership and the baggage that came with it. Domestic partnership, maybe, but never marriage.

 

"Ya _didn't_ think? Sounds like there's more to that." More astute than he'd anticipated. _Watch it_.

 

"She's engaged now." He tried to make it light, matter-of-fact, but he could hear the strain in his own voice.

 

"Oh. That was fast. Was she cheatin' on ya?" Janine's eyes narrowed; she was taking a moral stance and disliking this fake version of Molly on his behalf. It felt unexpectedly good to have someone instantly take his side for once, but it made his hackles rise at the same time; the thought of anyone disliking Molly or thinking ill of her character didn't sit well with him.

 

"We'd never expressly agreed on exclusivity—I didn't think it necessary, really, given my feelings on monogamy—and I think she began to believe that I was never coming back. To be fair, there were plenty of times I didn't think I was coming back, either." Well, a few. Too many for his liking.

 

Janine gave him a scrutinizing look. "You're not over her."

 

"Do you ever really get over people you l—" he caught it before it broke free. It was too painfully close to true in some form that he couldn't use it as part of his lie. Not that word, not in conjunction with her. "Well." He looked away, cleared his throat.

 

"I have moved on, though. I can't live my life pining for something that wasn't meant to be. It's a good thing, really. I'm getting a chance to get to know you, after all." Warm, fond smile; hooded eyes and meaningful gaze.

 

It worked better than he expected; Janine returned his smile and kissed him again, which quickly turned more physical, which led to him getting her off again with his mouth on her breasts and the leg of her knickers pushed far enough to the side to allow him to penetrate her with his fingers.

 

They didn't talk very much after; she kept glancing at the clock and he knew that she wanted to sleep, _alone_ , because she did have to go to work in the morning. Thank God. He was half an hour into the comedown and he really didn't want to have to fake anything else on top of feeling like hell.

 

He dressed and she kissed him at the door in just her dressing gown. He leaned heavily against the back wall of the lift and stared at the ceiling the whole way down, thinking about how stupid he'd been to say anything at all.

 

He wasn't really thinking when he gave the cabbie the address, his eyes on his phone and his mind on the next date, the next step, how far he could take it, scenarios and contingencies.

 

The cab stopped in front of Molly's. It was closer than his flat, he rationalized, no other reason he would have picked it. She wasn't home, anyway.

 

Or rather, she shouldn't have been. Her bag was on the table by the door; no sign of the fiancé, though. Too late to leave, anyway, even if he had been there.

 

He dragged himself upstairs, his body slow and heavy and everything just generally awful; he knew she had a three-years outdated bottle of benzos in her bathroom cabinet from right after she'd found out her 'boyfriend' was a criminal mastermind and she'd been jumping at shadows (hid it well enough from everyone else, but he saw—missed so much else, but he could always smell the fear on people). They were better than nothing.

 

He would have to get himself some 5-HTP and maybe some magnesium if he was going to go the MDMA route again. Probably shouldn't; he'd likely end up cracking a molar. Maybe opiates would be better all around. Never liked how they slowed him down. Speedballing had almost killed him when he was twenty-four, an experience he didn't care to repeat, so it would have to be either uppers or downers, not both together. Or in a cycle, since that double-rollercoaster was an even harder addiction to break.

 

He'd figure it out tomorrow. He popped a pill and stuck his head under the tap to drink; she'd moved his toothbrush again so he just used mouthwash before shuffling into her bedroom.

 

She was mostly asleep, having woken up when he got there and trying to keep herself awake to see if he needed anything but failing spectacularly; it was endearing beyond measure. He always slept on her side of the bed when she wasn't there; he'd only ever actually shared the bed with her twice before, just passing out in his clothes on top of the duvet because he'd run himself ragged.

 

He sat to take off his shoes, then figured to hell with it and stripped down to his pants because he didn't want to sleep in his clothes while he was still so hyper-aware of everything that touched his skin. He slid under the covers and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow, which would have been heaven if not for the fact that he could smell traces of the fiancé on the wretched thing, even though the sheets had been changed that very day. There was a reason he always slept on her side.

 

"Everything okay?" she managed to slur.

 

"Mm."

 

She hummed and rolled onto her side, facing away from him. He turned his head and looked at the tiny lump of her under the duvet, just the top of her head sticking out from underneath. What he wouldn't give to curl around her right then.

 

It was the drugs, he was sure; barring his very recent experiences with Janine, he had no personal reference for that kind of closeness. Well, childhood, a bit; he was told he'd been a physically affectionate child, but he'd deleted those memories somewhere along the way.

 

He woke up to her arm sliding around his waist and her body pressing against his back, the tops of her thighs touching the backs of his, her breath on his shoulder.

 

She probably thought he was _him_. The notion made him want to pull himself into a tight ball, away from her. It felt so good, though, too fucking good. She was only wearing sleep shorts and a vest top and her skin was warm and smooth where it touched his.

 

He was aware of everything; the sheer curtains fluttering as a cool gust of wind blew through her open windows, the muted sound of heavy rain falling on the roof above them and the sharp patter of it hitting the awning of the shop below her flat, a distant roll of thunder, her fingers catching his chest hair as they curled to rest in a loose fist over his sternum. Over his heart.

 

"Are you really okay?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She was very much awake.

 

He tensed and forced himself to relax; he couldn't give anything away. "I'm always okay," he said, trying and failing to keep his voice neutral.

 

"Mm," she hummed, _no you're not_ clear in the sound. "It's the weather. Brings it out in people," she dismissed.

 

There was something—or more than one something but mostly one big primary something—that she wasn't saying. He didn't want to ask, didn't want to know because if she was troubled he would feel... He would _feel_. And he would have to _listen_ and then he would _know_ and it would be in his head and the moment would turn into a _thing_ , an unmovable file on his hard drive.

 

He grunted in agreement, trying not to go rigid with every breath she took (the press of hard nipples and soft breasts, the caress of each exhale). His treacherous prick—now loosened from the hold of his pathetic attempt at chemical castration—twitched and firmed where it had so peacefully rested against his hip.

 

He hated his body. He should have gone home and had a shame-fuelled wank replaying everything he did just hours before, but he'd had his head so far up his own arse afterwards that he'd gone to the safest place his subconscious supplied him with. Funny, for being so fucking clever, he was very good at blundering into danger.

 

They'd never been anywhere near this close before. Slept in the same bed, yes, but they never touched, not even when they were awake. Bumping elbows in the lab or a friendly hand to the shoulder in passing while in close quarters was where it began and ended. Exactly two hugs, two and a half years apart (right before he left, immediately after he got back), two kisses to the cheek. Bookends, both.

 

"It's silly, but I feel like something's coming," she said after a time. She scratched her fingers lightly against his chest, an unconscious action.

 

 _Me, if you don't stop that_ , he thought, somewhere between smartarse and hysterical and so incredibly turned on that he was frozen in place.

 

"There's always something coming," he said, trying for nonchalant. "It's only when you let your guard down and stop expecting it that random life events seem more significant. 'Precognition' is only confirmation bias, more often than not."

 

She was too clever, knew him too well. What he was planning was big. Not as big as Moriarty, but much bigger, in some ways. Implications on a global scale.

 

"Or you see things happening but you don't know how to put the pieces together until something moves them into place," she contradicted, but without heat.

 

"That, too, sometimes," he conceded.

 

She sighed heavily against his overly-sensitive skin and he suppressed a shiver; a moment later he felt her lips against the ridge of his shoulder blade and he couldn't catch the way his breath hitched.

 

Everything hung around them, suspended in the moment like dust in the air. The kiss could have been a benediction, a comment on the human condition, the punctuation at the end of their brief foray into the metaphysical. He didn't know, and he didn't know what to _do_. Tell her no, ignore it entirely, turn over and take her in his arms and give in to one more human weakness?

 

Her hand uncurled, just the blunt ends of her nails resting against his chest. With the second press of her lips it was very clear what was going to happen, yet he remained paralysed by it. Unable to act, unable to reciprocate. Her fingers trailed over his chest; he thought she liked the feel of it by the way she kept stroking, ending with a swirl that twisted the hair under her fingertips.

 

She kissed his back again, her lips slightly parted and closing over the skin; his cock throbbed and he wanted desperately for her to touch it. To use her mouth.

 

He breathed through his nose and that was too much information that he didn't want. He could smell Janine on his face and his body (her make-up, her perfume, her base human scent); he could smell his own arousal and the lingering traces of amphetamines in his sweat; he could smell the fiancé underneath the pillowcase and lingering in the air like a ghost; he could smell London streets, wet and hot from the end of a brutal summer. He could smell Molly, just Molly, without any of the other things that usually clung to her. His mouth watered; he swallowed and drew in a breath through his parted lips because any more of that would be his undoing.

 

Her hand moved lower, one finger tracing the tip of his sternum before teasing over his stomach.

 

 _Say something,_ _ **do**_ _something_ , he urged himself. _Stop this before it destroys everything._

 

A voice from deep, deep in his mind said _go on, take something for yourself._ _ **Misbehave**_ _._

 

The phantom sting of a riding crop overlaid the next soft press of Molly's lips and his control broke.

 

His hand came up to cover hers briefly before he shifted and turned onto his back. He slid his right arm between her pillow and the mattress, leaving no ambiguity as to whether what she was doing was unwelcome or actually (desperately, achingly) wanted.

 

It was dark, the room lit only by the ambient glow of her quiet street in a city blanketed by a raging storm. It was a microcosm of her very essence, what she was to him. Because nature was just as much of a drama queen as he was, a flash of lightning made the room visible for the briefest millisecond; long enough to turn and lean into her and unerringly find her mouth when he kissed her.

 

Her hand had never left his stomach; she pressed her palm flat and slid it to his side, taking in all the textures of his skin as she squeezed the flesh of his waist. He skimmed his free hand up her forearm, gripping her elbow for a moment as he fought the urge to pull her completely on top of himself (he wasn't some _animal_ , he wouldn't manhandle her like that), skating over her upper arm before cupping the round of her shoulder with his palm.

 

Her other arm was bent awkwardly between them, her hand curled to rest with her knuckles against the hollow of her throat. That wouldn't do; he shuffled down a bit and she got the idea from his body language that she should put her arm around his neck (only John could read him better, but in a completely different way; the way a predator reads another predator, not the way prey reads a potential threat). He turned his shoulders into her while keeping his hips flat on the bed; he was ashamed at just how hard he was from only a few touches. He was ashamed he was hard at all, unable to disconnect himself from his flesh any longer.

 

He moved his hand from her shoulder to trail fingers over the exposed skin of her upper chest, along the spaghetti strap of her top to where the frankly useless material clung to her; she exhaled a sound needier than a sigh when he finally cupped her breast.

 

He compared, of course he compared; he decided he had a preference for the way he could cover her entire breast with his palm like it was a secret to be protected (strange thought, but his brain was awash in so many chemicals it was a miracle he was coherent at all).

 

She shifted and her thigh came to rest over his, high enough that she could probably feel the heat radiating from his cock. As if she'd read his mind, she moved her hand from his waist and over his stomach to cup him through the fabric of his pants. She never was one to waste time, he thought, even as he choked off a surprised _ha!_ -sound against her mouth.

 

He should stop her, stop this now, get out of her bed, her flat, her life because there was always a line and they were dangerously close to it. They could compartmentalize the kisses, the caresses, but if her hand touched the bare skin of his hard cock it would be more than he could pack away into some cupboard under the stairs.

 

Her fingertips hooked in the waistband of his pants and he had to stop her, had to warn her that this was the Rubicon, but no words came. He pushed her top up under her armpit to bare her breast while she (rather expertly) eased his cock and bollocks out of his pants. He thumbed and pinched her nipple, only breathing against her mouth because kissing was too complicated right then.

 

"Wait," she said, pulling away, rolling away, grabbing something in her bedside table. Condoms? He didn't think he was ready for that and a spike of fear and arousal in tandem raced down his spine, his cock jumping at the thought, a bead of fluid oozing from the tip.

 

She was back in an instant, rearranging herself more comfortably against his side; she pushed the duvet down and he heard the click of a plastic bottle cap. _Oh_ , he thought, before the cold drizzle of lube hit his cock. He half expected it to sizzle like water hitting a hot iron for how hard he was.

 

She spread it along the length in loose strokes, twisting her fist to coat every last centimetre of skin; she laid her flat palm against the underside and pressed his cock into his belly before rolling and cupping his bollocks.

 

She was good. She was so, so good, and he didn't want to think about how she got that way; he should be grateful for her experience to balance out his pronounced lack thereof, but he was jealous. And a hypocrite. Those were thoughts best examined later.

 

He kissed her with more urgency, swallowing down her moan when he pinched her nipple too hard, loving the way she arched against him even if he'd caused her discomfort. He soothed it with his thumb, thinking he'd rather it be his mouth, but that was otherwise occupied and he'd have to remove her hand from his cock to gain access. He was simply too greedy for that.

 

Her hand was so small, but so strong; her strokes were firm and sure. Maddeningly slow and long, then faster over the head, pushing his foreskin up over the tip and gliding it against her slick palm; he wasn't going to last.

 

She knew, of course she did; she squeezed the base of his cock before moving lower again, hefting-cupping-squeezing-rolling-massaging-tugging his bollocks until he wanted to beg her to touch his cock again.

 

His kisses grew sloppy, uncoordinated; when she finally did start stroking him again he abandoned them entirely in favour of just breathing. He made the mistake of glancing down his body; the visual of the red tip of his cock disappearing into her small, pale fist was enough to have him gasping and thrusting up into her grip.

 

He knew it was probably too soon, quick enough to be embarrassed about, but he was so very close. He wanted desperately right then to be inside her, to have her legs and arms wrapped around him as he fucked her, to make her cry out, to make her come; he caught her mouth and kissed her hard with the thought of it before he had to break away to warn her.

 

"Molly—" It was a whine and a plea and he hated how broken he sounded, raw and suddenly fearful in the face of losing control in front of her.

 

His muscles were rigid, quivering with the effort of holding himself back; his feet twitched under the blankets, toes curling. His cock was so hot, so hard it hurt, a steady stream of fluid leaking from the tip to dribble over her thumb.

 

"Just let go," she breathed against his lips.

 

That was all it took; his arsehole clenched and his cock jumped with the first contraction of his muscles, exhaling a ragged groan as a split-second later the first weak spurt of semen hit his belly, another more powerful one on the tail of it, emptying himself over his chest and stomach. She worked him through it, wringing every last drop out of him and then gentling her strokes before letting his spent cock rest against the mess he'd made.

 

He drifted briefly in a space without words or thoughts, only feelings more intense than he'd ever experienced before. He didn't know if it was the drugs or her or the combination of the two.

 

She began to pull away and he held her tightly in place, a little more roughly than he intended; even basic motor functions were beyond him. She seemed to understand well enough and kissed him softly, brushing her nose against his in a way that was so excruciatingly intimate he had to swallow against words that threatened to rise in his throat. He didn't know what they would actually be and that was what scared him the most.

 

They lay in silence for the minute it took him to catch his breath, for the tinnitus to fade.

 

"Do you want—" he began to ask, moving his hand lower from where it rested against her ribs to caress her stomach. He'd probably do a rubbish job in his current state, but he'd get her there regardless.

 

"No, it's fine. Not, ah, not tonight," she cut him off.

 

He wondered why, but then his brain supplied him with the image of circled days on the calendar next to her desk in the spare room.

 

He found the thought of her doing _that_ while menstruating unsettling. Not because she _was—_ women tended to do it on a fairly consistent basis barring complications and he found it no more distasteful than any other bodily process or function—but because it wasn't a thing they shared with men for whom they didn't hold the deepest level of comfort and trust. There was a lot more to that entire train of thought, but it was something else to unpack later.

 

The second time she pulled away he let her go; the fear of her suddenly abandoning him when he was most vulnerable wasn't as urgent. And that's what it had been, shameful and weak as it was.

 

Well, what was letting her see one more weakness, when she already had quite the collection started? Troubling, that she never let him see any of hers.

 

He lay there listening to her running water in the bathroom, his body sated and brain dull. Any feeling of contentment was overshadowed by the weight of what had just happened.

 

She returned with a damp flannel and a glass of water; she pushed his hand gently away when he tried to stop her from cleaning him up. Was that part of it as much for her as it was for him? He didn't understand any of it, how complicated it was. With Janine it had only been a transaction, services rendered as a downpayment toward his ultimate goal. An equitable exchange, since she was looking more for sex than she was any lasting emotional attachment, anyway.

 

She tossed the flannel into the laundry basket next to her chest of drawers; he sat up and drank some of the water while she got herself settled back in bed.

 

He wasn't really sure what came next. Were they supposed to cuddle and talk about the relationship? He was given to understand that was more the expected thing rather than the done thing, but he really didn't know and he really didn't want to ruin their friendship any more than they may have done.

 

He was so tired; between the drugs and the lying and the benzos and the sex, he just wanted to crawl under a nice fluffy rock and shut his brain off for a year. He lay down again and tried to make himself comfortable on his back; the sheets were irritatingly cold and damp from sweat.

 

The storm had subsided, the rain something softer and more soothing. Any other time it would lull him to sleep almost immediately, the perfect white noise for his exhausted brain.

 

Too many questions; Why, why _now_ , _what_ now, what about _him_ , what about everything else, expectations, regrets—

 

"Just go to sleep, Sherlock," Molly said, her hand finding his under the duvet, interlacing their fingers.

 

He did, and much faster than he expected he'd be able to.

 

He woke up alone, sometime in the early afternoon. He wondered if he'd hallucinated the night before, since the flannel and the glass of water were both nowhere to be seen. Molly was habitually tidy to the point of compulsion, though, so their disappearance would hardly come as a surprise.

 

Troubling. Dangerous.

 

He was definitely sticking to opiates for the rest of the ruse. And he was definitely keeping himself away from Molly Hooper. Whether it had or hadn't happened last night, he couldn't have the distraction, not when his focus was already going to be blurred by controlled use of mind-altering (-dulling) substances and his remaining energies poured into crafting a fake relationship. He couldn't let Molly get tangled up in that, wouldn't, not when her engagement was so clearly on the rocks (missed the signs last night, but clear as day now).

 

He struggled himself out of bed and into her shower; he could smell her on himself and, under that, he could still smell Janine. He closed his eyes against a wave of self-hatred so strong it made him want to cry; he knew it was serotonin et al, but that didn't make it feel any less awful.

 

He suddenly found himself looking forward to the haze of oxycodone or morphine or whatever he could get his hands on first.

 


End file.
